Insecurity. I’m pretty sure that we all deal with some measure of it. Me, I’m pretty bad. I know I’m extremely insecure, mostly about how I look. The worst part about it is, I studied rhetoric and cultural theory in college, with Susan Bordo as a frequent book selection, and Leslie Heywood a teacher and advisor, so truly I should know much more than the average person about the damage of the conventions of beauty. And while I’ve been able to dissect the social constructions around beauty, I’ve still never been able to reconcile it within myself. I give good speeches, but I’m not sure if I ever truly accept even my own words of wisdom.

Ah, so how does this at all play into this game of survival? I think this part of me is genetic. When my grandmother was dying (of brain cancer) she was talking about seeing my dead grandfather and a biker angel. She had become obsessed with Ricky Martin and Joe Pesci. But even though her mind was slowly slipping away, her vanity remained intact. She still wanted to wear makeup, and nice clothes, and she was so concerned about how the steroids and treatment was making her look. My nanny was a beautiful woman. She was absolutely stunning. She was a kind, good-hearted person who gave of herself and any definition of beautiful—in regards to both the aesthetic and personality—applied to her. While others questioned why she would care what she looked like, I didn’t. I understood even then. She would’ve been beautiful to me no matter what; and I know that she knew that, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t want her lipstick applied perfectly day in and day out.

What happens is that we become attached to our outside persona. We recognize ourselves in photographs and the mirror. It’s how we reach our identity. But this sickness, this disease, takes that away bit by bit. You’re subjected to countless humiliations and all of the sudden you’re completely dependent on everyone you come into contact with to help you get well and not lose your mind. And you look in the mirror and you wonder: Is this who people see? Is this who I am now? It’s not even fitting into some idea of beauty that Hollywood has created. That’s why I don’t understand plastic surgery; why would you want to look like anyone other than who you are? I would think that would completely screw with your head. Believe me, I wasn’t even thinking, damn I wish I could look like Kate Bosworth. I was thinking, when can I look like the girl smiling in the photos of my trip to California? When can I look like me? If I don’t look like me, and I certainly don’t feel like me, who am I? And if I can’t connect to that, do I lose that part of myself?

I am readily admitting I am insecure. I try to be better than that, I’ve written about it, and I wonder when I’m going to grow up and be comfortable in my own skin. When I’ll stop comparing myself to other people, and feel confident in knowing who I am.